A Perfect Companion

The rain has just stopped when she steps out of the alley as if she'd been waiting there all day — which, given the way she looks at you, she might have been. She's dressed in a long green coat, holds a battered umbrella like a scepter, and smiles at you with the certainty of someone who has already won an argument you haven't heard yet.

"Greetings," she says, "Marisol Thorn. Witch, third circle. I finally succeeded last night in my divination for my companion and it led me to you. Isn't that wonderful?"

You open your mouth to say something sensible — that you have work, that this is a street, that you don't know her — and she's already circling you slowly, murmuring, tucking a sprig of something behind your ear. The air smells suddenly of rosemary. The streetlight above you flickers, then steadies into a warmer, friendlier gold. Somewhere behind you, a bus you needed to catch sighs away three minutes early.

"Don't worry," she says brightly. "I'll take care of everything."